(Or: How I Got Hit With 400 Flushes to the Face and Lived to Smell About It)
Meet Pinky—not his real name, just what everyone called him because of his mysteriously pink coveralls that no amount of industrial detergent could un-stain. Pinky was a lavatory truck driver, which, in the glamorous world of aviation, is basically the guy who makes sure the toilets don’t become weapons of mass dis-gust.
It was a foggy Tuesday morning at Terminal 2. Pinky had just finished his Tim Hortons double-double and was proudly scratching off a losing lottery ticket when the call came in:
“747 arrival. Gate 105. Air India. FULL SERVICE. You’re up, Pinky.”
He groaned. A Queen of the Skies. In lav truck lingo, that meant more toilets than a Costco on free sample day. And Air India? A long-haul from Delhi. Translation: That bird had flown through three continents, six curry meals, and four diaper changes.
Pinky put the truck in gear and rumbled out, his hose coiled and optimism uncoiled.
As he approached the massive aft tail, the majestic 747 loomed over him like a constipated dragon. He parked under the tail section, climbed out, whistled a few bars of “Highway to Smell,” and popped open the lav panel.
And that’s when the horror happened.
WHOOSH!
SPLORT!
GLURG!!!
Without warning, a Niagara Falls of in-flight effluent exploded from the panel. Pinky didn’t just get splashed—he got baptized in every unspeakable thing 372 passengers had left behind. The pressure hit like a firehose of shame. His boots filled instantly. His pink coveralls turned… dark brown.
A nearby ramp agent screamed, “CODE BROWN! CODE BROWN!!”
Pinky stumbled backwards like he’d seen Cthulhu. He was slipping and sliding across the ramp like a greased seal in a porta-potty.
Then came Larry, the water truck driver, who knew what to do.
“PINKY DOWN!” he shouted, pulling the hose like he was about to rinse an elephant.
He sprayed Pinky like a riot cop at a vegan protest. Pinky stood there, arms outstretched, water blasting his face, his boots, his… everything.
A crowd had gathered behind the terminal glass. Children pointed.
“Look mommy! Is that a fire drill?”
“No sweetie… that’s a life lesson.”
Eventually the water stopped. Pinky dripped in silence. His dignity was somewhere between Row 43 and a half-eaten samosa.
Tony the Supervisor walked over, sniffed the air, and said,
“Well Pinky… now you know why we don’t call it First Class waste.”
MORAL OF THE STORY?
If you love aviation… don’t ever fall behind a 747.
Especially when it’s got to go.
